The Sting of Death

I had just finished reading a description of the fifth video released about Planned Parenthood. I was trying to read between stop lights in the heavy northern Virginia traffic. What has happened to our country?

Soon I found myself trying to wipe my eyes between stoplights. The crying wouldn't stop. My heart is wretched in two and I grieve.

The boys are in the backseat bickering and whining. Their tattling is ringing in the air. Why are they acting like this?

Harrison has a scraped knee, Jefferson lost his Iron Man, and Wilson is using his t-shirt to wipe his nose and I'm taking out the rising emotions in myself on the brake pedal being smashed into the floor board.

The noises filling the car aren't the most pleasant of sounds but they have breath and life to make them. They may get scrapes and stitches, lost toys and bad dreams, but they live. They play. They dream. They grow. They live!

Knitted in secret they grew and thrived.

Yet in the secret, other babies are murdered at the hands of evil.

I sit at the stoplight surrounded with whining, precious whining, staring at my phone sitting blank on the console remembering the words on it's screen moments before.

I can't read them again. The brake pedal couldn't take anymore.

I think of my babies I never held on this earth I would have moved Heaven and Earth to hold. Those precious babies I loved. I grieved their loss. And the same hurt, the same sorrow grips my being in the same crushing grief. I can't breath.

My brake pedal is glad to be relived of it's floorboard duty as we arrive home and I sweep four squabbling children in my embrace. It's tight, it's raw, it's the surrounding ourselves with life. Their silence in the moment is deep as if they know the solemn grief of my heart. I look deep in their beautiful eyes and wordlessly charge them in this fight.

America is under attack, the sacredness of life is being extinguished. But we are fighting.